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AFTER eleven years of study
and exploration in the Sierra Nevada of California and the mountain-ranges
of the Great Basin, studying in particular their glaciers, forests, and wild
life, above all their ancient glaciers and the influence they exerted in
sculpturing the rocks over which they passed with tremendous pressure,
making new landscapes, scenery, and beauty which so mysteriously influence
every human being, and to some extent all life, I was anxious to gain some
knowledge of the regions to the northward, about Puget Sound and Alaska.
With this grand object in view I left San Francisco in May, 1879, on the
steamer Dakota, without any definite plan, as with the exception of a few of
the Oregon peaks and their forests all the wild north was new to me.
To the mountaineer a sea
voyage is a grand, inspiring, restful change. For forests and plains with
their flowers and fruits we have new scenery, new life of every sort; water
hills and dales in eternal visible motion for rock waves, types of
permanence. It was
curious to note how suddenly the eager countenances of the passengers were
darkened as soon as the good ship passed through the Golden Gate and began
to heave on the waves of the open ocean. The crowded deck was speedily
deserted on account of seasickness. It seemed strange that nearly every one
afflicted should be more or less ashamed.
Next morning a strong wind was blowing, and the
sea was gray and white, with long breaking waves, across which the Dakota
was racing half-buried in spray. Very few of the passengers were on deck to
enjoy the wild scenery. Every wave seemed to be making enthusiastic, eager
haste to the shore, with long, irised tresses streaming from its tops, some
of its outer fringes borne away in scud to refresh the wind, all the
rolling, pitching, flying water exulting in the beauty of rainbow light.
Gulls and albatrosses, strong, glad life in the midst of the stormy beauty,
skimmed the waves against the wind, seemingly without effort, oftentimes
flying nearly a mile without a single wing-beat, gracefully swaying from
side to side and tracing the curves of the briny water hills with the finest
precision, now and then just grazing the highest.
And yonder, glistening amid the irised spray, is
a still more striking revelation of warm life in the so-called howling
waste, — a half-dozen whales, their broad backs like glaciated bosses of
granite heaving aloft in near view, spouting lustily, drawing a long breath,
and plunging down home in colossal health and comfort. A merry school of
porpoises, a square mile of them, suddenly appear, tossing themselves into
the air in abounding strength and hilarity, adding foam to the waves and
making all the wilderness wilder. One cannot but feel sympathy with and be
proud of these brave neighbors, fellow citizens in the commonwealth of the
world, making a living like the rest of us. Our good ship also seemed like a
thing of life, its great iron heart beating on through calm and storm, a
truly noble spectacle. But think of the hearts of these whales, beating warm
against the sea, day and night, through dark and light, on and on for
centuries; how the red blood must rush and gurgle in and out, bucketfuls,
barrelfuls at a beat!
The cloud colors of one of the four sunsets enjoyed on the voyage were
remarkably pure and rich in tone. There was a well-defined range of cumuli a
few degrees above the horizon, and a massive, dark-gray rain-cloud above it,
from which depended long, bent fringes overlapping the lower cumuli and
partially veiling them; and from time to time sunbeams poured through narrow
openings and painted the exposed bosses and fringes in ripe yellow tones,
which, with the reflections on the water, made magnificent pictures. The
scenery of the ocean, however sublime in vast expanse, seems far less
beautiful to us dry-shod animals than that of the land seen only in
comparatively small patches; but when we contemplate the whole globe as one
great dewdrop, striped and dotted with continents and islands, flying
through space with other stars all singing and shining together as one, the
whole universe appears as an infinite storm of beauty.
The California coast-hills and cliffs look bare
and uninviting as seen from the ship, the magnificent forests keeping well
back out of sight beyond the reach of the sea winds; those of Oregon and
Washington are in some places clad with conifers nearly down to the shore;
even the little detached islets, so marked a feature to the northward, are
mostly tree-crowned. Up through the Straits of Juan de Fuca the forests,
sheltered from the ocean gales and favored with abundant rains, flourish in
marvelous luxuriance on the glacier-sculptured mountains of the Olympic
Range. We arrived in
Esquimault Harbor, three miles from Victoria, on the evening of the fourth
day, and drove to the town through a magnificent forest of Douglas spruce, -
with an undergrowth in open spots of oak, madrone, hazel, dogwood, alder,
spiroea, willow, and wild rose, — and around many an upswelling moutonne
rock, freshly glaciated and furred with yellow mosses and lichens.
Victoria, the capital of British Columbia, was
in 1879 a small, old-fashioned English town on the south end of Vancouver
Island. It was said to contain about six thousand inhabitants. The
government buildings and some of the business blocks were noticeable, but
the attention of the traveler was more worthily attracted to the neat
cottage homes found here, embowered in the freshest and floweriest climbing
roses and honeysuckles conceivable. Californians may well be proud of their
home roses loading sunny verandas, climbing to the tops of the roofs and
falling over the gables in white and red cascades. But here, with so much
bland fog and dew and gentle laving rain, a still finer development of some
of the commonest garden plants is reached. English honeysuckle seems to have
found here a most congenial home. Still more beautiful were the wild roses,
blooming in wonderful luxuriance along the woodland paths, with corollas two
and three inches wide. This rose and three species of spiraca fairly filled
the air with fragrance after showers; and how brightly then did the red
dogwood berries shine amid the green leaves beneath trees two hundred and
fifty feet high.
Strange to say, all of this exuberant forest and flower vegetation was
growing upon fresh moraine material scarcely at all moved or in any way
modified by post-glacial agents. In the town gardens and orchards, peaches
and apples fell upon glacier-polished rocks, and the streets were graded in
moraine gravel and I observed scratched and grooved rock bosses as
unweathered and telling as those of the High Sierra of California eight
thousand feet or more above sea-level. The Victoria Harbor is plainly
glacial in origin, eroded from the solid; and the rock islets that rise here
and there in it are unchanged to any appreciable extent by all the waves
that have broken over them since first they came to light toward the close
of the glacial period. The shores also of the harbor are strikingly grooved
and scratched and in every way as glacial in all their characteristics as
those of new-born glacial lakes. That the domain of the sea is being slowly
extended over the land by incessant wave-action is well known; but in this
freshly glaciated region the shores have been so short a time exposed to
wave-action that they are scarcely at all wasted. The extension of the sea
affected by its own action in post-glacial times is probably less than the
millionth part of that affected by glacial action during the last glacier
period. The direction of the flow of the ice-sheet to which all the main
features of this wonderful region are due was in general southward.
From this quiet little English town I made many
short excursions — up the coast to Nanaimo, to Burrard Inlet, now the
terminus of the Canadian Pacific Railroad, to Puget Sound, up Fraser River
to New Westminster and Yale at the head of navigation, charmed everywhere
with the wild, new-born scenery. The most interesting of these and the most
difficult to leave was the Puget Sound region, famous the world over for the
wonderful forests of gigantic trees about its shores. It is an arm and
many-fingered hand of the sea, reaching southward from the Straits of Juan
de Fuca about a hundred miles into the heart of one of the noblest
coniferous forests on the face of the globe. All its scenery is wonderful —
broad river-like reaches sweeping in beautiful curves around bays and capes
and jutting promontories, opening here and there into smooth, blue,
lake-like expanses dotted with islands and feathered with tall, spiry
evergreens, their beauty doubled on the bright mirror-water.
Sailing from Victoria, the Olympic Mountains are
seen right ahead, rising in bold relief against the sky, with jagged crests
and peaks from six to eight thousand feet high, — small residual glaciers
and ragged snow-fields beneath them in wide amphitheatres opening down
through the forest-filled valleys. These valleys mark the courses of the
Olympic glaciers at the period of their greatest extension, when they poured
their tribute into that portion of the great northern ice-sheet that
overswept Vancouver Island and filled the strait between it and the
mainland. On the way up
to Olympia, then a hopeful little town situated at the end of one of the
longest fingers of the Sound, one is often reminded of Lake Tahoe, the
scenery of the widest expanses is so lake-like in the clearness and
stillness of the water and the luxuriance of the surrounding forest.
Doubling cape after cape, passing uncounted islands, new combinations break
on the view in endless variety, sufficient to satisfy the lover of wild
beauty through a whole life. When the clouds come down, blotting out
everything, one feels as if at sea; again lifting a little, some islet may
be seen standing alone with the tops of its trees dipping out of sight in
gray, misty fringes; then the ranks of spruce and cedar bounding the water's
edge come to view; and when at length the whole sky is clear the colossal
cone of Mt. Rainier may be seen in spotless white, looking down over the
dark woods from a distance of fifty or sixty miles, but so high and massive
and so sharply outlined, it seems to be just back of a strip of woods only a
few miles wide. Mt.
Rainier, or Tahoma (the Indian name), is the noblest of the volcanic cones
extending from Lassen Butte and Mt. Shasta along the Cascada Range to Mt.
Baker. One of the most telling views of it hereabouts is obtained near
Tacoma. From a bluff back of the town it was revealed in all its glory,
laden with glaciers and snow down to the forested foothills around its
finely curved base. Up to this time (1879) it had been ascended but once.
From observations made on the summit with a single aneroid barometer, it was
estimated to be about 14,500 feet high. Mt. Baker, to the northward, is
about 10,700 feet high, a noble mountain. So also are Mt. Adams, Mt. St.
Helens, and Mt. Hood. The latter, overlooking the town of Portland, is
perhaps the best known. Rainier, about the same height as Shasta, surpasses
them all in massive, icy grandeur, — the most majestic solitary mountain I
had ever yet beheld. How eagerly I gazed and longed to climb it and study
its history, only the mountaineer may know, but I was compelled to turn away
and bide my time. The
species forming the bulk of the woods here is the Douglas spruce (Pseudotsuga
douglasii), one of the greatest of the western giants. A specimen that I
measured near Olympia was about three hundred feet in height and twelve feet
in diameter four feet above the ground. It is a widely distributed tree,
extending northward through British Columbia, southward through Oregon and
California, and eastward to the Rocky Mountains. The timber is used for
shipbuilding, spars, piles, and the framework of houses, bridges, etc. In
the California lumber markets it is known as "Oregon pine." In Utah, where
it is common on the Wahsatch Mountains, it is called "red pine." In
California, on the western slope of the Sierra Nevada, it forms, in company
with the yellow pine, sugar pine, and incense cedar, a pretty well-defined
belt at a height of from three to six thousand feet above the sea; but it is
only in Oregon and Washington, especially in this Puget Sound region, that
it reaches its very grandest development, - tall, straight, and strong,
growing down close to tide-water.
All the towns of the Sound had a hopeful,
thrifty aspect. Port Townsend, picturesquely located on a grassy bluff, was
the port of clearance for vessels sailing to foreign parts. Seattle was
famed for its coal-mines, and claimed to be the coming town of the North
Pacific Coast. So also did its rival, Tacoma, which had been selected as the
terminus of the much-talked-of Northern Pacific Railway. Several coal-veins
of astonishing thickness were discovered the winter before on the Carbon
River, to the east of Tacoma, one of them said to be no less than twenty-one
feet, another twenty feet, another fourteen, with many smaller ones, the
aggregate thickness of all the veins being upwards of a hundred feet. Large
deposits of magnetic iron ore and brown hematite, together with limestone,
had been discovered in advantageous proximity to the coal, making a bright
outlook for the Sound region in general in connection with its railroad
hopes, its unrivaled timber resources, and its far-reaching geographical
relations. After
spending a few weeks in the Puget Sound region with a friend from San
Francisco, we engaged passage on the little mail steamer California, at
Portland, Oregon, for Alaska. The sail down the broad lower reaches of the
Columbia and across its foamy bar, around Cape Flattery, and up the Juan de
Fuca Strait, was delightful; and after calling again at Victoria and Port
Townsend we got fairly off for icy Alaska. |
